


Water, stories, the body, all the things we do

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:03:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim, Oswald, and things that are understood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water, stories, the body, all the things we do

**Author's Note:**

> More from the s1-compliant queue of fluff.

He keeps both his hands pressed firmly to the rough brick wall for some stability, staggering down the street with his vision swimming, and his muscles shivering and twitching. There had been something in that coffee, he _knew_ it as soon as he drank it, saw the owner watch him way too closely. As soon as he had gone into the backroom to get the paperwork he had requested, Jim had made for the door, jaw set, determined to get out of there before whatever the hell it was could kick in.

Fresh air and daylight had almost completely overloaded his senses, and he had thought, for a bad moment, that he was going to pass out right by the door, static ringing in his head. He had forced himself to bear down hard, to breathe steadily and move away as fast as he could, any direction _away._ Phoning Harvey crossed his mind, but he didn’t trust his ability to use his phone right now.

Which brought him here, staggering down the street, clinging to the wall. He can feel stinging pain in the heels of his hands – grit under his skin from dragging along the rough brickwork, but he’s not willing to let go, and the pain is good, it’s a focus - grounding him, keeping him from disappearing inside his own head. Besides, he’s got the strangest feeling that he’s almost there, though he’s not quite sure where _there_ is, until the street becomes suddenly familiar, and he realises that whatever centres of his brain are still operational have brought him to Cobblepot’s club.

The door is mercifully open, and Jim pitches through headlong, grateful – for once – for the dim lights. Inside, he is suddenly aware of the loudness of his own breathing, and the sound of his unsteady, lurching footsteps, as he forces himself forward along the corridor, leaning on any wall or door he can find on the way to propel himself onwards.

As he finally reaches the bar, he spots Cobblepot - seated at a table near the centre of the room -who stands abruptly and makes his way quickly towards him. He’s saying _something,_ but it seems garbled and distant to Jim, and he can’t make it out. Which turns out not to matter much anyway, because as soon as Cobblepot is close enough that Jim can see the worried frown creasing his forehead, his brain decides that this is a safe place to check out. Pitching forward, he feels surprisingly strong hands gripping underneath his arms, and then there’s only blessed, welcoming darkness.

**

Jim’s eyes open. He’s disoriented, not sure where he is. Wherever it is, it’s quiet, and very dimly lit. He’s lying on his back, cushions soft under his head, and there’s a warm hand resting lightly on his shoulder. His eyes shift carefully and very slowly to the right, because balance feels precarious right now, and sees Oswald Cobblepot watching him attentively, a small relieved smile on his face as their eyes meet. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low and soft.

‘Jim. You’re awake. I was worried about you, my friend.’

Jim licks his lips, tries to speak. ‘What happened?’ His voice sounds loud, much too loud, in his own head, and he would have been knocked off-balance again, if it hadn’t been for the hand on his left shoulder leaning a little heavier, anchoring him.

‘You turned up here in a rather sorry state, and then fainted. Gabriel helped me bring you in here.’

‘Here?’ Jim tries to twist round to see exactly where he is, and feels that horrific loss of balance again, feels like he’s spiralling. His eyes start to track frantically, looking for stability, and his gut twists.

‘Jim? Jim. Look at me.’

There’s a thumb under his chin, and a palm pressing lightly against the side of his face, turning his head a little. Jim stares straight ahead, panicked. Cobblepot’s cool eyes look back at him, strange and bright in the dim room. He makes himself focus on those eyes, and the room slowly starts to settle round him. Oswald carefully removes his hand from his face, clearly trying not to set him off-kilter again.

His other hand is still resting on his shoulder. There’s a nagging little thought scratching at the back of Jim’s head, that he should really move that hand, that his relationship with Cobblepot isn’t simple enough to safely permit that hand to stay. But it’s steadying, and Jim feels awful, and so he refuses to listen to that nagging little voice.

‘As I said, you showed up here – at my club – extremely distressed. You fainted, and Gabriel and I brought you back to my office. I called a doctor. He checked your heart rate and blood pressure while you slept.’ 

Oswald pauses for a moment and watches to see if he is taking all this information in. After he’s satisfied, he continues, more slowly than he would usually speak.

‘They were both a little high, but he preferred not to risk any medication without knowing what you had been given to get you in this… state. You were agitated in your sleep, so I stayed here with you.’

Jim digests this information silently, keeping his breathing even and slow. 

‘Thanks’

Oswald smiles. ‘You don’t have to thank me, silly. What are friends for? I’m happy that you came here, to me, in your hour of need.’

Jim lets his tired eyes rest on him. They’ve stared each other down enough times, but Jim doesn’t look at him like this, not usually, not ever – an rule that he observes with an almost desperate resolution. He’s come up with all sorts of tricks – looking over his head, or at his hair, or just beyond his shoulder, or letting his eyes flit round the room, landing on anything but him. He’s not unpleasant to look at – unnerving, and strange, maybe – but Jim can’t say that he repulses him. It’s just… his eyes are… 

Jim closes down that thought before it can take a proper shape in his head, leaves it undefined. 

He moves to more practical matters, instead, fixing Cobblepot with as stern an expression as he can manage right now.

‘You know I won’t tell you who did this’

Oswald’s smile grows wider. ‘I know you won’t. And _you_ know that I want you to tell me.’ He tilts his head slightly, pleased by this observation, for some reason. Jim keeps his focus on his eyes.

‘Do you have many friends Jim? I imagine you do – lots of friends, from school, and the army. You’re used to this…’ he searches for the right word, ‘Understanding. Knowing each other.’

Jim does not have the energy right now to contradict him, to tell him that no, he doesn’t have many friends at all, hardly any, in fact, and that even those who do know him well tend to describe him as ‘difficult’, get frustrated at how much work he is. 

He lets Cobblepot talk.

‘I… I don’t have many friends.’ His smile falters for a moment. ‘And no-one else like _you’._ The smile is back up to full beam. ‘To know someone so well…’ 

Cobblepot’s soft, oddly lulling voice is interrupted. Harvey barrels into the room, only finishing his noisy squabble with Gabe when he spots Jim.

‘Hey – Jim? You OK? Can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, huh?’

Jim’s head starts to reel again – the noise and movement too much, way too much.

‘Detective’

Cobblepot keeps his voice low. He’s trying to quiet Bullock, but there’s enough venom in his tone to kill a man.

‘You take your hands off him, Penguin.’ 

Harvey reaches down to slap Oswald’s hand off Jim’s shoulder. Jim squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shift away from Harvey – but that just makes everything worse. The room’s flipping and twisting now, and Jim’s head is hammering painfully, random muscles cramping. He loses his sense of what’s going on – focus drawn entirely inward to try and grasp some control.

He slowly becomes aware that the noise has stopped. One hand returns to his shoulder, just like before. Jim focuses on that weight on his shoulder, anchoring him in place, and breathes as steadily as he can. He’s not sure how many times he breathes in and breathes out before there’s a cool, light touch under his chin, carefully angling his head. He opens his eyes slowly, fastens on to Oswald Cobblepot’s stare again, and holds on for dear life.

‘You _see,_ Detective Bullock. As I tried to tell you, Jim needs peace and quiet until this… whatever it is, wears off.’ He gives Jim a small sly smile before he speaks again. ‘You can take your hand off Detective Bullock’s mouth now, Gabriel.’

Jim tries to give him an admonishing look, but it takes too much effort. 

When Harvey speaks, his voice is noticeably quieter.

‘ _Fine,_ Penguin. Jim – this happen at the place you said you were headed this morning? The place on…’

Jim interrupts him. ‘Don’t say the name’, he manages to grit out. He take a slow breath and adds, ‘But… yeah. It was there.’

He watches Cobblepot’s eyes glint at his earlier theory being proved right: that Jim will not say the name in his presence because he knows Oswald would want retribution for this injury to a friend, and Oswald’s idea of retribution goes far beyond what is legal and what Jim can stomach.

Harvey leaves swiftly, always focused on his task for all the attitude.

The door closes behind him with a click, and then it’s just the two of them again.

‘Well’, he says. ‘ _Hopefully_ Detective Bullock will manage to do his job, for once.’

Cobblepot’s voice is still low, and he shows no sign of getting up to leave – his hand relaxed on Jim’s shoulder, entirely unlike his usual fidgety restlessness. Jim himself can’t leave - can’t storm out, or snarl, or all the things he would usually do. He can only look, and allow Cobblepot to look at him.

And all at once he _knows,_ , sees it so clearly - nothing new, but something that he refused to look at in the light of day before, something he had recognised and quickly hidden again at the back of his mind. He knows with complete certainty how to ensure that Cobblepot does not maim or kill whoever was responsible for this. Simple, and terrifying. He takes a breath before he speaks, voicing it an acknowledgment in itself.

‘I’m asking you not to do anything about this. Please. Please don’t.’

Cobblepot sighs, but his eyes are indulgent. ‘If you insist.’

Jim exhales, relaxes a little back against the cushions now the immediate danger has passed. The longer-term danger, the fact that this man, a criminal, will do whatever Jim asks simply because he wants to please him, this much more complex danger that he can’t leave alone, and that he’s not sure he even wants to eliminate – that can wait for now. He reaches for some small talk to steer back to safer waters.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to sit here all…’

Cobblepot’s giving him a wry look that makes Jim flush. Oswald would happily sit here with Jim as long as he wanted him to – Jim knows that, and Oswald knows he does.

‘Is there anything you’d like? Water, or…’

‘I’m OK’

Cobblepot frowns. ‘If you’re sure, but …’

Jim’s starting to feel sleepy again, in fact. The room is dim and quiet, and Cobblepot’s hoarse voice has a lilt to it... Probably why he’s so good at wheedling and flattering. And lying. His voice trails over words, tone and cadence always just slightly _off,_ slightly different, forcing him to listen, pay attention. No-one else sounds quite like him, not that Jim’s met, anyway. 

‘..and I can – ah, I’m sorry, Jim.’

Cobblepot’s noticed that he’s drifting off. Jim’s still out of it enough that there’s no way he can leave, and Cobblepot leaving isn’t possible without knocking him off-balance again. But asking him to stay while he sleeps would be awkward as hell. 

‘No, no – I’m listening.’

Cobblepot tilts his head quizzically, and his gaze grows briefly more piercing before softening again. The corner of his mouth turns up before he speaks.

‘Ah, Jim - I forgot to mention, probably all the commotion caused by Detective Bullock…’ - His lip curls at the mention of Harvey – ‘distracted me. The doctor _did_ ask that someone remain present until you felt more fully recovered. He was very insistent. He’s not entirely sure of what drug was administered to you, and, well – safety first.’

Jim’s been rumbled. It’s a lie. A palatable lie. One that’ll allow him to have Cobblepot sit here without having to ask for it. He should be alarmed at how easily Cobblepot has managed to read him and give him what he needs – but he’s too damn tired.

Still, given how smug Cobblepot looks right now, the favour’s not all one-sided. This is an unexpected pleasure for Cobblepot – something he’ll enjoy. That gives Jim back a little control, a little power – he supposes. 

It also makes something nameless thrill and shiver at the back of his head, the fact that Cobblepot wants to do that, sit here while he sleeps. His next words he’ll blame on the drugs, later.

‘You can keep talking, though. It’s fine.’

He can’t look away from Cobblepot without spinning off-balance again, and so he can watch his reaction to this without studiously glancing away, like he usually does. Want sharpens Cobblepot’s features, and his gaze trails so heavily over Jim’s face that he can almost feel it dragging along his skin. If it was just lust it would be easier to dismiss, ignore, but the need on Cobblepot’s pale face is more complicated than that. It looks _pained_ , and it makes something in Jim’s chest ache, and it strokes his ego, and it’s far too addictive. His eyelids start to feel heavier again. Too much. He needs to rest.

He sees Cobblepot swallow and recover himself, his eyes softer now, the hunger on his face banked down. He takes a breath and smiles at Jim.

‘Mother taught me that it’s important to cultivate a wide range of interests – that a gentleman should be able to hold a conversation in any setting. Let’s see, what would be...? Ah. Did you know that this building actually predates the prohibition era? It was originally built to…’

It’s a neutral subject, but not dull – especially not to them. They both live and breathe the city. 

Jim pays attention at first. Cobblepot likes words. He’s articulate and knowledgeable and he draws Jim in whenever he talks – whether Jim likes it or not. He does like it, he can acknowledge that here, in the half-dark. Even when he shouldn't, he likes it.

No matter how interesting he is now, though, Jim’s mind is tired and overtaxed, and he’s only focusing on the sound of his voice now, not the words, if he’s honest. His eyes close and he lets go, sinks again, but it’s soft, and slow this time. He knows what he’ll find when he slides beneath the surface.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> This was just a short story that came from the idea of Jim being drugged and winding up at Oswald's club. Or - my usual hurt/comfort, but with Jim crashing on Oswald's sofa for a change :D I wanted to put Jim in a situation where he'd be forced to look at the uncomfortable truths he keeps buried at the back of his head.
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this, and might well go back and tinker later.
> 
> The title is from a poem by Rumi:
> 
> Water, stories, the body,  
> all the things we do, are mediums  
> that hide and show what's hidden.
> 
> Study them,  
> and enjoy this being washed  
> with a secret we sometimes know,  
> and then not.


End file.
